Convergence in Hell’s Kitchen

It was six years ago that I met a man out in a bar in Brooklyn Heights, New York. He drew me into a question for the patrons, while I was ordering a round of drinks. I answered and that was the beginning of one of many conversations. It would have been an entirely ordinary way to have met if I hadn’t been there with my grandmother, celebrating her 85th birthday, whom later that night taught him the fox trot. We were all out until the morning light crept in over the Heights and it was time to go back to Chicago. It was a chance meeting that would mark the pivot of our becomingness.

But we would both have to wait almost five years before he would see me one evening, from the back of a cab, entering Regents Park. I wasn’t there in the park then, but he did indeed manage to find me, once again. With perhaps some help from the Gods and credit to ourselves, we didn’t hold back.  I was finally ready to let this someone, brilliantly beautiful, in.

After nearly seven months of writing and reading love letters from my side of Chicago, a trip to London on Randy Ave, rambling across the green heaths and moorlands of The Peak District admist Bronze Age stone formations, and tuning into a deep comforting voice across the ocean that could only be my best friend; I now find myself in Hell’s Kitchen, New York, smiling and playing frisbee in Central Park, in a convergence that is our sui generis.

Here, in our living room, is where some of our art comes together: A Dempsy vs. Firpo, possibly the best fight of the first half of the 20th century, Apsaroke Indians, Waiting For the Signal, Henry Miller on his bicycle, Hunter S. Thompson smoking on the beach, a Leroy Neiman polaroid art copy of a painting of Vegas ladies, Prada in Marfa Texas, a three dimensional Roman Colosseum, Frazier, Ali, Liston and Patterson, a photo of the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, a preserved Exile on Main St.album, more American Indians in canoes off the coast of Washington State during sundown, my family’s saloon on the mudded streets of Broadway, St. Louis, a cobbler shop in the Netherlands and a Parisian bicyclist, images of rural Illinois meets the suburbs, an unleashing of butterflies from a man’s chest, flecks of gold and Free Air, all mingling with us.

From here, who knows what we will find together to add to our collection or where we will find ourselves in love. What I do know, is that I’m with someone that I can find beauty, art, and truth in everyday life with. And at the end of the day, here’s where we both become further encouraged.

More images of the art and design elements of this work in progress….



The Deco frame sofa was finished as I was loading the truck for New York and I had one word for it once I saw it–badass. It was upholstered with three fabrics that I had been saving for three different upholstering projects, which I decided to use all together in making this one piece for our apartment.  I enjoy the labyrinth black and white graphic against the warm stripes. The glass beaded, copper end table is also an upholstered piece that holds a brass lamp from my late grandfather; similar tailored silk shades flank the sofa. Reflections of the copper beads, brass, glass and dashes of gold play up the room and call for many candle lit evenings.

 

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